


All the Masks We Wear

by skreev



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Pining, maze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28344900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skreev/pseuds/skreev
Summary: It seems unfair. Unfair that he always teases her. That he knows her so well and yet doesn’t want her. That he prefers strangers to her.She had really thought that if she stripped away all of Ingrid—and became another anonymous phantom for him to woo, pursue, and undo—that he might want her too.Perhaps there is something wrong with her, something that runs so deep that not even her costume can mask it. He wants a prettier woman; a daring and bold woman; a woman who will fill his bed without much fuss. A woman who is not Ingrid.----All Ingrid wants is to surprise Sylvain at the annual masquerade. But after Sylvain fails to recognize her in her disguise, Ingrid learns what it means to be seduced by the best friend she has always pined for.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 88





	All the Masks We Wear

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the Sylvgrid discord server. Thanks y'all for the brainstorming and encouragement!

As Ingrid steps out into the ballroom, she is overwhelmed by sensation: the bright halo of chandeliers blazing above a mass of dancers; the air inundated by perfume and sultry heat; music swelling over the rustle of silk and taffeta. Bodies in grotesque uniform swarm and mingle in the castle’s hall. Through the thin slits in her mask, she surveys the motley forms in their disguises. Hoods and hats crown masks of all shapes. Veils drape, and dresses shimmer.

Ingrid adjusts her mask. Already, a sheen of sweat coats her brow. Her makeup pills and smudges in the heat. She wonders if anyone else notices.

They see her, or rather, they see her costume. They see the midnight blue silk of her bodice and tight-fitted breeches. They see the silver designs that entwine and wind, like ley lines tracing map of her body. Around her shoulders cascades a curtain of gossamer, a gauzy little piece that barely conceals the shape of her bare arms and shoulders underneath. Heads crane to pry under the tricorn hat that covers her hair and the half-mask that obscures all but the silver paint of her lips.

They are curious, she realizes. Anonymity cloaks her. No one recognizes her as a member of Dimitri’s court. No one knows her as a daughter of Galatea. 

The thought gives her a thrill.

Not that Ingrid recognizes anyone either. Costumes verge on the absurd: harlequins in gaudy check, horned beasts of burdens, every feather of bird, and more than a few Divine Heroes. A woman glides by wrapped in garlands upon garlands of roses. Prominent beaks knock noses over wine while revelers in the guise of shepherds and shieldmaidens flit and pivot on the dancefloor. 

It strikes Ingrid that she knows more than a few of these people. Family friends or other nobles or bureaucrats in the great city of Fhirdiad. Their identities disappear beneath plaster shields and swaddles of gauze.

As Ingrid aimlessly passes through the ballroom, she finds herself lost in the chaos. So much thought and planning had gone into her costume that Ingrid realizes that she has no idea what to actually do at a masquerade. There will be dancing, she assumes, and a fair amount of alcohol. But even her friends are strangers here.

 _It’s your fault,_ Ingrid thinks to herself. _You were the one who insisted that your costume would be a surprise._

She is not ready to reveal her hand yet. No, first she wants to make Sylvain sweat.

Sylvain is perhaps the easiest person in the room to find—a blaze of red hair above a flock of silken petticoats and powdered wigs. Ingrid rolls her eyes when she sees his costume. A canvas doublet unfastens down the front to expose the glint and gleam of oiled muscles. Skintight trousers outline his shapely legs. His mask is a strappy silk band with two torn holes for eyes.

It is a lazy excuse for a pirate costume, but Ingrid cannot keep herself from staring at the suggestive flap of his shirt. The mask conceals her fluster.

His adoring crowd breaks into shrill laughter when he speaks.

Sylvain’s head pivots towards her. His eyes beneath his mask connect with hers.

Ingrid turns away, pretending as though she didn’t see him.

All according to plan.

* * *

_Months earlier…_

“Turn the page.”

Ingrid flipped the page.

They hadn’t done this in ages: sprawled out on the floor of Gautier’s library, one candle burning down to the nub, reading from the latest serialized installment of the _History of Hortatio_. Their heads knocked over the pages, so close that Ingrid caught his breath on her brow.

“Turn the page,” Sylvain instructed.

“I’m not done yet,” Ingrid said.

“You read too slow.”

“I don’t read too slow. You read too fast. You skip, like half the details.”

“Yeah, because I want to see where it’s going,” Sylvain said. “Do you think Selina is really going to assassinate her father?”

Ingrid blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Probably not. There will probably be some sort of cop-out. Like she’ll just exile him or forgive him.”

“Nah, he’s dead. Selina doesn’t suffer fools.”

“Guess it’s a good thing she doesn’t know you then.”

“Hey, ouch.”

Ingrid balanced her head on her hand and studied him for a moment. These were her favorite moments—moments they stole away together with a half-baked excuse to cuddle. Moments when Sylvain belonged only to her. Moments when Ingrid can play pretend.

Suddenly, Sylvain sighed and rolled over onto his back. He stretched his arms, joints popping after hours crowded over the book. 

“So,” Sylvain said, “you hear that Dimitri wants to start up the annual Royal Masquerade again?”

“Mmhm.”

“I’m thinking I’m going to go as Tremaine the Pirate King from _Brigands and Brigades_.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Is that just an excuse to not wear a shirt?”

“Oh, I’ll be wearing a shirt. Most of one anyways.” He yawned and ran a hand through his mop of hair. “What are you thinking you’ll be going as?”

Ingrid made a non-committal noise. She was still trying to finish the page.

“You should be Margot,” Sylvain said.

“No.”

“Why not? She’s hot.”

“In every production of _Brigands and Brigades_ I’ve been to, I’ve never seen her wearing anything but coconuts.”

“Yeah. That’s what I said. Hot.”

Ingrid focused intently on the book. She didn’t want to have this conversation with Sylvain. Part of her wanted to go back to reading together, side by side, leaning against him and smelling the sharp musk of his aftershave.

Even if she did dress up as Margot, Sylvain would just spend the entire masquerade ignoring her—right up until the point that he needed her to rescue him from an angry husband or a jealous lover. 

She liked him best when he was not flirting. When he obsessed over something that was not a woman. These were Ingrid’s moments and no one else's. They belonged to her—only her—, and the more time that passed, the greedier Ingrid became for them.

“Let me guess,” Sylvain said, “you are going to go as some sort of magical flying pegasus creature.”

Ingrid pursed her lips. “No,” she lied. She didn’t need to look at Sylvain. She could imagine his expression in her head: eyebrows raised, lips quirked. 

“Really?” She could hear the smug satisfaction dripping in his voice too. “All right. So you’re going as a knight or some sort of hero.”

“No!” Ingrid snapped. “Why do you care anyways?”

“Tell me, Ingrid,” Sylvain pleaded. “I’m curious.”

“It’s…a surprise,” Ingrid said. Truth was, she had no idea what she was going to dress up as, and Sylvain had just listed her two most obvious options—something which grated at her. It annoyed her sometimes that Sylvain knew her so well—that he was privy to so much of Ingrid’s interior world but never allowed her into his.

Still, the lie would buy her some time to really think about what her outfit might be. Perhaps she might branch out this year. Perhaps she would go as a…horse or an archer.

Wait, perhaps Sylvain had a point.

“A surprise?” The lie had the opposite effect than intended. Sylvain instantly rolled back beside Ingrid. Immediately, he nudged at her shoulder. His proximity suddenly became a battery ram, face so close Ingrid was sure it would break through her defenses. “What do you mean a surprise?”

“I mean…you’ll have to wait until the night of the masquerade to find out,” Ingrid said.

Now, she finally allowed herself to look at him. He was biting his lip, his eyes narrowed with mischief.

“I like the sound of that,” he said, voice low and thick. “Is it sexy?”

Ingrid shut the book and batted his head with it. “Really?”

Truly a man with no self-preservation, Sylvain waggled his eyebrows and added, “I bet it’s sexy.”

“Stop.” Against her will, Ingrid’s cheeks began to warm.

Their eyes connected. For a second, Ingrid thought she saw a flicker in Sylvain’s mirth. As though his breath hitched and his smile faltered. As if something more serious crossed his mind. It would have been the perfect moment for him to kiss her.

But he didn’t.

Sylvain tore his gaze away. “Well, I can’t wait to see what it is."

* * *

Ingrid accepts a flute of champagne from a servant and whisks through the crowd, far from where Sylvain preaches to his flock. She has not quite mastered the art of drinking without smudging her silver lip paint, but a little liquid courage will soothe her nerves, she hopes.

 _Don’t get away entirely_ , she reminds herself. She slows as she reaches the colonnade that rings the room and leans against a single column, sipping her champagne with such delicacy that she leaves only a metallic rim behind. She glances behind her.

He hasn’t followed.

The champagne sinks like bile down her throat. The disappointment _burns_.

Of course he did not follow. He never does. Oh, he flirts and he smiles, but he never pursues. Not Ingrid.

It seems unfair. Unfair that he always teases her. That he knows her so well and yet doesn’t want her. That he prefers strangers to her.

She had really thought that if she stripped away all of Ingrid—and became another anonymous phantom for him to woo, pursue, and undo—that he might want her too.

Perhaps there is something wrong with her, something that runs so deep that not even her costume can mask it. He wants a prettier woman; a daring and bold woman; a woman who will fill his bed without much fuss. A woman who is not Ingrid.

She downs the rest of her champagne. The bubbles leave a bitter aftertaste. The alcohol flushes her with heat, and Ingrid finds it hard to breathe in the oppressive air of the ballroom.

“May I have this dance?”

The words cause her heart to lift and sink. A stranger bows before her, black silk weaving into a turban around his head. A skull adorns his face. _Death incarnate_ , Ingrid thinks. _How appropriate. So this is what I attract._

She places her hand in his and accepts his request.

The man reeks of garlic and too much wine. His silk gloves slide in Ingrid’s grip. When the dance ends, he bows and tries to engage her in conversation. Normally, Ingrid would feel indebted to the stranger. She would let him prattle to her about something or other for fear of being rude.

Tonight, she is rude. Her mask grants her that leniency at least.

The next dance passes with a gentleman in Leicester yellow and the horns of a stag. Ingrid only accepts because she suspects it might be one of her former classmates, but as they step together, she realizes that it is merely another stranger. His hands plant awkwardly on her waist; their leaden weight makes her itch for the dance to end.

Mid-whirl, she catches sight of Sylvain, standing in observation at the edge of the dance floor. Ingrid almost lets herself believe that he is watching her.

She spins and twirls. When she checks again, he has disappeared. Probably to chase whatever Fantomina has caught his latest fancy.

When the dance ends, Ingrid takes her leave. The dance or the heat or _something_ has parched her throat, so she marches to the back of the dance floor, brushing past dominos and jesters, to find a drink. A fountain sprays water from the throat of a stone dragon, and Ingrid fills a cup. Here, fewer people bustle, and the air feels cool against her brow.

Part of her wants to rip off the mask and be done with the charade. _Time to stop playing pretend,_ she thinks as she chugs her water. The straps dig into her scalp, and her nose bruises where it sits on the bridge. What is the point anyways? Her friends cannot find her, and the large crowd makes it difficult for her to identify anyone she might know. 

“Why, hello beautiful.”

The voice sticks her to the spot. Her head turns slightly, just to see a blip of bright hair and the flap of his shirt. _Sylvain_. So he has followed after all. Her mouth goes dry again.

She reminds herself of the performance _: you are not Ingrid tonight_. Ingrid might sigh and huff; Ingrid would rebuff and avoid. But she is not Ingrid tonight; she is someone else—someone bolder, someone coyer, someone confident enough to admit that they are in love with Sylvain Jose Gautier.

“Do I know you?” she says, voice arching with a hint of detachment. This is the same voice she has heard Dorothea work on a hundred men; the same voice that intrigues them and makes them follow. She only hopes that her performance captivates half so much.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

As Ingrid faces him, she finds his closeness distracting. The burn of his gaze traces her body—heels to hat—drinking her in like water from the fountain. Finally, he grins—a grin that Ingrid has seen so often but never herself inspired.

“But I know who you are.” 

* * *

Ingrid forgot that Sylvain loved surprises. More than that, he loved to spoil surprises. As a child, he would always be sneaking into closets to find birthday presents or tricking Ingrid into sharing her schoolyard secrets.

Ingrid should have expected the same level of insufferable attachment to the masquerade bit.

“Are you going as a fairy?” Sylvain harangued Ingrid as she finished her letter to her father. The masquerade was a moon away, and Ingrid still had no idea for a costume. Despite the fact that Sylvain was supposed to leave soon to ride out from Fhirdiad with Felix and Dimitri, he perched on the edge of Ingrid’s desk, rattling off every creature, character, and caricature that floated into his mind. 

“Stop.”

“Are you doing one of those costumes where you wear nothing but shells?”

“I am not doing any costume that involves the words ‘nothing but.’”

Sylvain mocked a sound of disappointment. “Fine, fine. Are you going as a season? Like Autumn or Winter?”

“Stop.” The more Sylvain guessed, the more annoyed Ingrid felt. How was he so good at this? 

“Are you going as one of the Divine Heroes?”

Ingrid groaned. "At this rate, I'll never be able to afford the costume anyways, so what does it matter?"

This was a new lie--or rather, it was a convenient truth. The price of a bespoke costume had astounded her. Her father would never approve the funds needed for a real costume, and her paltry savings were not sufficient, unless she were willing to sacrifice eating for a month. 

Ingrid watched Sylvain's reaction. His smile collapsed, and for an agonizing minute, he said nothing. 

"Ingrid, please let me buy you your costume." His words were soft. Oh great, now he pitied her. 

"No."

It never escaped her attention how Sylvain always bought their tea and their books. Some grand display of noblesse oblige to ease his affluent guilt, she supposed, or another desperate attempt to make himself valuable to her, as if material gifts were the only thing that he had to offer. The former made her despise his pity; the latter never failed to ensnare her in guilt.

"Ing, I know what you're going to say but--"

Ingrid set down her pen. She pushed back her chair, stood up, and pointed towards the door. “Out.” 

"Ingrid, don't do this--"

"I was kidding. I'll have a costume. It'll just be...less extravagant than I originally planned." Lies multiplied on top of lies. Ingrid was never going to dig herself out at this rate. Sylvain studied her as though he didn't believe her. "Really, Sylvain. You don't need to worry." 

“In that case,” Sylvain said, shifting back to teasing. “I am still determined to find out what it is.”

“Find out what?” came a dulcet voice.

“Mercedes!” Sylvain clapped his hands in relief. “Mercie, do you know what Ingrid’s masquerade costume is?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t,” Mercedes said. “What are you going to go as, Ingrid?”

Ingrid gritted her teeth. “It’s a surprise.”

“Oh, how delightful.”

“Come on, Mercie, what do you think Ingrid is going to be?” Sylvain asked. 

“It’s not a surprise if you figure it out,” Ingrid snapped.

“I love surprises,” Mercedes said. “Besides, the point of a masquerade is to disguise yourself. If you know what she’s dressing as, it ruins the point.”

The clocktower tolled out the hour, and Sylvain groaned. “Look, I have to go,” he said as he backed out, “but I’m going to find out.”

Ingrid thumped back into her seat. Fingers snarled into her hair.

“Ingrid, I came to tell you that Annie and I are going shopping today,” Mercedes said. “Would you care to join us?”

Ingrid sighed. “Can’t.”

“What’s wrong? You sound upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Ingrid said. “I’m annoyed.” She glanced over Mercedes’ shoulder. Sylvain was long gone. In a hushed whisper, she said, “my masquerade costume isn’t actually a surprise. I just have no idea what to go as.”

“Oh, well that’s no problem,” Mercedes said. “You still have plenty of time to figure it out.”

“The problem is that Sylvain keeps trying to guess what it is,” Ingrid said. “And he keeps coming up with good ideas, but once he says them, I can’t use any of them.”

“Why not?”

“Because then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

“Ah,” Mercedes said. “I think I understand. You want to surprise Sylvain with something special, and you need something he’ll never guess to make a big impression.”

The way Mercedes said it made it seem as though Ingrid had some sort of ulterior motive. The blood rose to her face. 

“That’s not the point,” she insisted. “The point is that…Sylvain thinks he knows me oh so well, and it’s presumptuous of him to think that I can be so easily guessed. I want to prove him wrong.”

“Mmhm, if you say so.” 

Ingrid sighed. She twisted the pen in her hands. “Do you have any ideas?”

Mercedes smiled. “Well, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you either. But I can try to help you think of something. Annie is going as a parrot. Isn’t that fun? And I was thinking of going as the White Lady of Daphnel, one of my favorite ghost stories.”

A parrot and a ghost. Those were great ideas—ideas that Ingrid could no longer use.

“What about a pegasus?” Mercedes said. “That seems like the perfect costume for you!”

Not this, again. How predictable was she?

“He expects that,” Ingrid sighed and dropped her head to the table. Watching the candle flicker and blaze reminded her of sprawling on the floor of the library with Sylvain. It hurt her to admit it, but perhaps Mercedes was right.

She wanted to surprise Sylvain. She wanted to make him stop and stare. She wanted to make him look at her the way he looked at all the other women and to mean it—to really, really mean it—when he called her beautiful. 

“Well, I’m sure you’ll think of something spectacular,” Mercedes said. “Maybe you should think of something that’s really meaningful to the two of you. Something that you know he enjoys.”

When Mercedes left, Ingrid chewed over what she had said. Something meaningful. Something he would enjoy. All this time, Sylvain had been guessing things that he knew Ingrid would like—costumes that he would expect her to choose. She needed to think like him and find a style that he would enjoy.

Except, well, a classier version of that.

At the edge of the desk, Ingrid spied the weathered spine of _The History of Horatio_. Absently, she reached for the novel on her desk and begun to flip through it. There, on the bookplate before the title, Ingrid found her costume.

* * *

“And who I am?” Ingrid keeps her voice level and low.

“You’re Selina Cosima, heroine of the _History of Horatio_.”

A sense of relief washes over Ingrid. He still has no idea.

“You read,” she says plainly.

“What can I say? I’m a sensitive, literate guy.”

Ingrid must keep herself from laughing. Were this their usual banter, she might have darted back at him: _Really? Literate? That’s what call yourself?_

She wonders if his swarm of admirers knows how he waits at the bookseller on the day of a new release. She wonders if they imagine his detailed correspondence with Bernadetta, with notes upon notes about her writing. Do they care that he’s a ‘literate guy’? Or is that just a detail he pulls out whenever he needs to impress someone, a rare little peek of authenticity beneath the veneer?

He braces an arm over her head, caging her against the fountain. She remembers seeing this move before. _Do women really like this?_ she had wondered then.

She kind of likes it. 

She enjoys his proximity and the heat of his body despite the broil of the ballroom. She breathes in his cologne, now mixed with the heady musk of his sweat. His shirt falls wider open, and Ingrid must remind herself not to stare.

Any other man and she would throw her hands up, deliver the punch, and slip away. But she knows Sylvain, even if he doesn’t know her.

“Are you going to ask me to dance?” she asks.

“Do you want me to?”

Ingrid sighs. “If you are going to play coy with me, then perhaps I shall find a gentleman who _wants_ to dance with me.” She cannot keep the bitter tang from her voice.

“Oh, I want to dance.” The words cause Ingrid’s blood to sing. He holds his hand out, and Ingrid slips hers inside. His fingers make a tight curl around her hand.

In a single fluid movement, he whirls her onto the dance floor. Suddenly, she stands close against him, one hand in his, the other on his shoulder. His spare hand sits stubbornly under her arm.

The dance begins. She trains her gaze on his, but it is difficult to maintain. His eyes carry an intensity behind his mask—cardamom melting into liquid spice. She wonders if he ever blinks. Why isn’t he blinking?

The strangest thing is that she knows Sylvain. This is not the first time that they have danced or held hands. The feel of his body is not unknown to her: she thinks of when they wrestled as kids or trained in close combat or clung to each other, bloody and haggard, in the heat of battle. She thinks of those hours stretched along the library floor, shoulder to shoulder, hands barely touching, as they shared their simple love of reading. 

Yet these sensations are all new to her. Her heart thumps at the beat of three-quarter time. They dance a dance they have danced a thousand times, yet Ingrid stumbles, as though learning it for the first time.

“Whoa!” Bodies collide as a drunken reveler swings his date into their orbit. Just as Ingrid feels herself slip away, Sylvain’s hand slides from under her shoulder to the small of her back, squeezing her close to his body. Whatever distance had elapsed between them disappears now.

Ingrid turns her head to the drunk man and growls. Her eyes flash with annoyance. The couple laugh and stammer an apology before staggering away with shameless giggles. When she returns her gaze to Sylvain, she straightens her face into a demure smile.

He chuckles.

“What?” she asks. It does not escape her how closely he still holds her.

“Nothing,” he says with a shake of his head. His smile conceals some great secret.

* * *

Dimitri paid for Ingrid’s costume.

Ingrid hated that. Well, not really. What she hated was that she had to accept his charity.

The further Ingrid sunk into this deceit, the more it ensnared her. Now that she had committed to devising the perfect costume, she caved under the weight of its expectations. It was no longer just Sylvain but Mercedes too and now, apparently, Dimitri.

It occurred to Ingrid that she could simply give up the bit—confess her sin, admit her folly, and admit herself that Sylvain was right. Yet whenever this little rationale whispered to her, she convinced herself that it was too late. If she was going to come clean, she should have done it earlier. She was stuck now.

Eventually, Ingrid had to admit that she wanted to prove Sylvain wrong.

Hence the reason why Ingrid hesitated to accept Dimitri’s help. Deep down, she knew she was being stubborn. She had no real need for a fancy dress just to make Sylvain gawk. Sylvain would flirt with a streetlamp if it had the right curves.

“I really believe that you deserve it,” Dimitri told her. He sat behind the desk in his study, hands folded as if they were conducting official business and not discussing Ingrid’s sartorial intentions.

“Did you really call me down here just to try to force me into some silly dress?” In a petty attempt to appear annoyed, Ingrid crossed her arms.

“All I am saying that we would disburse whatever the cost from my own endowment,” Dimitri said. “Mercedes indicated that this was of some importance, and I…I know you will try to skimp on this!” If Dimitri had been trying to sound firm, he failed.

Ingrid pursed her lips. “Mercedes is overstating the situation. Why do I need to spend good money on an outfit that I will wear once?”

“I understand that Sylvain is quite excited for this outfit as well,” Dimitri says.

Oh no.

“I know what you’re doing,” Ingrid says pointedly. “Did Mercedes put you up to this? I do not need my friends meddling between me and Sylvain.”

Dimitri blinked at her. “What exactly am I doing now?”

All the blood drained from Ingrid’s face. She ducked her head in embarrassment. 

“Oh, nothing. Please, forgive me.” 

“I am not a good liar, so I suppose I will out with the truth. Sylvain tells me that you have some sort of grand concept for your costume, and that he is concerned that you have been backing out of it recently because of financial concerns.” 

Ingrid dragged out a sigh. “How much of the money you are offering me is his?”

“None. He did try to offer it to me because he said that you would never accept it from him, but I don’t really spend my allowance, so I might as well give you something that you truly deserve. You stood by me for all those years, when you didn’t need to, and I want to give my thanks.”

It seemed rather silly to spend so much money on a costume, but Ingrid so rarely wanted something like she wanted this outfit.

“I will pay you back in full.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“With interest.”

“I will not accept it.”

“I’ll give it to Dedue then.”

Dimitri chuckled. “Good luck with that one.”

Ingrid tried to chuckle, but it came out as more of a heavy wheeze. Was this not what she wanted? In a few words, Dimitri eased her only obstacle to attending the masque. He granted her the ability to captivate Sylvain at long last. Perhaps the money had been an excuse—yet another reason to avoid making a move.

“Ingrid, I understand that I am not the best person to be asking this question,” Dimitri said. “But why won’t you accept Sylvain’s help?”

Because she depended on him too heavily already. Because gifts meant obligations and Ingrid had too many of those. Because he dispensed the same gifts to everyone he met and that cheapened the meaning somehow. Because what she wanted from him was not a dress at all.

Ingrid exhaled. “Sylvain always feels as if he needs to buy love, but mine’s not for sale.”

It will be freely given, or not given at all.

* * *

The music winds down, and already, Ingrid wants more. Her own desires frustrate her. She had what she wanted. She has enraptured Sylvain and proven herself capable of catching his eye. But what had she really proven? That Sylvain did not care for her unless she decked herself in a tight bodice and too much makeup? That he never loved Ingrid, only the promise of an easy lay?

This is the moment that Ingrid should reveal herself, but the words fail to arise.

Even when the music stops and the other couples have parted, Sylvain’s hand lingers on her back. The smile slides away, and the eyes simmer and brood. Ingrid has seen this face before but never in a situation like this. This is the face of Sylvain drinking away the memories of his brother; the penetrating stare of a man weary with war; the longing gaze of a life conscripted within the bars of a gilded cage.

Over the years, this expression has spoken many things—deep thought and introspection, concern and apprehension, yearning and nostalgia—but never has it carried his charm or sensuality. Ingrid starts to wonder what she has done wrong until suddenly the smile switches back on and, with it, the charm.

“Say, how about you and I skip this next dance and go somewhere a bit more private?”

Partners regroup on the ballroom floor as the music begins to play again. Ingrid does not have time to think through her answer. Selina would agree, even if Ingrid feels as though she is walking off the plank.

“Will you be good?” she asks.

“On my best behavior,” he promises.

Ingrid bites her lip. Is that what she really wants?

“Disappointing,” she remarks dryly. Sylvain’s eyes darken to smoky quartz with a grin that threatens to devour her.

“Doesn’t have to be.” He holds out his arm, and Ingrid slides her hand around it. _So this is what it feels like,_ she thinks, as they pass, arm in arm, through the ballroom _._ She has watched this scene unfold so many times from a distance, and now it is her turn.

It is not her turn. It is Selina’s turn.

They break into the cool air of night. Crowds clamber over every inch of the portico. Sylvain maneuvers between the crowd, and the tight quarters give Ingrid an excuse to lean against him.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks as they skip down the marble stairs. Before them, lanterns twinkle like stars in the dark gardens of Fhirdiad’s palace.

“To the court of madness in the heart of Adorna’s great labyrinth,” he quotes from the _History of Horatio_. Ingrid laughs. _You dork,_ she wants to say, but then she spies the walls of the castle’s hedge maze rise up before them.

Excitement drums in Ingrid’s pulse. Once they pass into the labyrinth, there will be no easy escape. Part of her cannot believe she is doing this. _Once we are through, I must confess,_ she thinks. Already she feels as though her deceit has run too deep.

“My lady, whichever way shall we go?”

Ingrid pauses at the first fork. Fairy lights web the dark sky, elongating the shadows both left and right. Ingrid tightens her grip on Sylvain, closes her eyes, and picks a direction.

Down the dark and shifting corridors they stumble, arms linked and heads spinning. Ingrid’s nerves bubble up as a light giddiness. She giggles as Sylvain takes control, guiding her down the sinuous turns, the anxious pit knotting ever more tightly with each curve and dead end.

“Are you trying to get us lost?”

“My dear, that is rather is the point.”

Ingrid knits her fingers in his. “And then what?”

“That depends on you,” Sylvain purrs. “Your wish is my command.”

The blood stills in Ingrid’s veins. A fear grips her like she has never felt before. Her fingers knit with Sylvain’s. Suddenly, she darts forward and kisses him on the cheek. Sylvain turns his head, trying to catch her lips, but she traps his mouth with a finger.

“We are not lost yet,” she says.

Oh, if she could just be Selina—living unafraid and bold, without consequences or fear of judgment or the pain of loss when he eventually moved on without her. If only romance existed the way it did in books—that she could find her Count Darien and indulge in one true love without any of these complications.

But Ingrid knows better than most that stories of romance exist only in fiction. 

Their path emerges into a secluded alcove, guarded by the statue of a lion. Sylvain drops onto a stone bench and tugs Ingrid into his lap. It surprises her how easily she falls. Her body slots into his, so naturally it is as if they were made to fit together. His hand on her thigh burns a hole through her shorts.

“Well, I’m exhausted,” he says with a smirk. “Let’s take a break.”

“Something tells me you knew exactly where you were taking me.” 

Sylvain hums, too distracted by unclasping the mantle from Ingrid’s shoulders. The cloak cascades down her shoulders, fabric pooling in Sylvain’s lap. This is the most exposed Ingrid has ever been in her life. Bare shoulders prickle in the cool air. Sylvain’s hands skim her arms, firm and warm against her skin. Ingrid swallows hard, trying to remember how she had gotten here.

He traces the labyrinth of silver lines interlacing her outfit. “I like this.”

How does he manage to dip his voice so low? Why does it make her shiver?

“Are you cold?” He takes it as an excuse to wrap his arms tighter around her. By Sothis, he is good at this. Ingrid lacks the wherewithal to even raise her shields. Always she has viewed this from afar; now that she suffers the full brunt of his attentions, she understands why it works so easily.

In an attempt at being ‘flirtatious,’ Ingrid draws a finger along his shoulder; her touch skims featherlight at the fabric, too afraid that anything else may push her too far off the brink. 

“Nice costume,” she says, and instantly, she regrets it. Compared to Sylvain’s seductions, her attempt sounds crude— _nice_ costume? Could she not devise anything more creative? Might she not call him handsome or remark on his strong muscles or hint at the myriad of emotions churning inside of her?

“Oh yeah? What else do you like about me?”

Oh, Sothis, save her.

“Are you really begging, sir, for flattery?”

“Hey, a guy can want to be complimented every now and then too.”

It is hard for her to remember that she still wears her mask by the way that his stare cuts through her. As Ingrid considers her answer, he takes her hand and kisses each one of her fingers. It distracts her more than she wants to admit. 

_Think of what Selina would say_ , and the thought gives her courage.

“Well, I hardly think that you need another person to tell you how handsome you are—”

“Can’t hurt.”

“And I suppose I could comment on the fine detail of your clothing, which would be just one way of noticing that you’re wealthy.”

“That is most women’s favorite part about me.”

“But I think I will compliment you on your eyes. For they say that eyes are the window to the soul, and if that’s the case, then you must have the most beautiful soul I’ve ever seen.”

“Damn.” By the stunned timbre, Ingrid wonders if she has truly surprised him. “You truly outclass me. First with the better costume, and then with a better line.”

“It wasn’t a line.” How strange that for once she is the one to insist on this. He would never know just how truly she meant those words.

By the intensity of his expression, he no longer seems to care about compliments. His thumbs press into her jaw. _Now is the time to give up the gig,_ Ingrid thinks. She swallows hard. _Now is the time to reveal herself._

His body curls against her. The thumbs guide her face towards his.

 _Take off your mask,_ she urges herself. _Tell him who you are. Do something._

He kisses her.

Ingrid has seen Sylvain kiss many women before. She has seen all variety of kisses from him. Sensual and suggestive. Sloppy and open-mouthed. Drunk and poorly aimed. Quick pecks racing down a woman’s neck. Air kisses blown across the courtyard.

But she has never seen him kiss someone the way he does her.

Slow and deliberate, he gently massages her lips with a pliable pressure. His fingers leave her face. One hand cradles her against him while the other slides down her thigh. The kiss leaves her so weak that at first she cannot move, but suddenly, filled with vigor, she reaches up and fists his hair in her hand. In response, his grasp tightens around her; the hand on her thigh squeezes and grips. 

When he pulls away, he wears a wolfish grin and half of her silver lip paint.

Dazed and lightheaded, Ingrid needs a moment to catch her breath. 

The impact of her actions suddenly hits her, and with it, she buckles under the weight of her mistake. Sylvain perhaps does not realize what he has done, but how is she ever supposed to forget this? Now that she has had a taste of what could be, how can she bear to watch him pursue woman after woman, while she suffers alone?

Once this is all over, she will remove her mask and return to being Ingrid. He will be, as he ever is, Sylvain. The thought brings a bitter wash of regret.

Another voice, born of desire, tells her to make the most of it. Be Selina while she still can wear the mask. She is not yet ready to let go of him. Her hand slides behind his neck and brings him down to her. His lips open into hers. Her hat crashes against his forehead. 

This time, as she grips his neck, the other hand wanders down his torso and skims along the pane of his muscles. She does not even realize what she is doing until she hears him growl. That is new. That is something she has never heard from him before. She flattens an exploratory palm against his abdomen, sinking down towards his belt, and he breaks from their kiss to expel a heady sigh.

As his lips start tracing the line of her jaw down to soft skin of her décolletage, a deeper anxiety enters her mind. What if she reveals herself now and he rejects her? The thought rattles her. Would he be angry at her for her deception, for tricking him into kissing her? This transgression could end their friendship. It could ruin everything between them.

Ingrid decides that it must remain a secret.

“You are very beautiful,” he murmurs into her neck. His teeth scrape the skin above her collarbone, and Ingrid shudders against him.

“How can you tell?” Ingrid asks. “You cannot even see most of me.”

“Call it an educated guess,” Sylvain says. “Although I would be very interested in seeing more of you.” A finger hooks over the top of her bodice and tugs suggestively.

All at once, it becomes too much for Ingrid. She remembers why she had cultivated such a zone of caution before. How easily it will be to fall and how devastating the aftermath will be—making love without having his love, holding him in her arms before he slips away.

Ingrid will not survive. Their friendship will not survive.

She shrugs his arms off her, a maneuver meant to disarm an enemy rather than tease a lover. Tripping over her heels, she stumbles away from him. Abandoned on the bench, Sylvain gargles a note of disbelief. The sudden gulf of air makes her shiver. Even with her mask, she feels bare and exposed—stripped down to her rawest core.

“I am flattered by your attentions,” Ingrid says, “but I do not think we can proceed.”

Words spill fitfully out of Sylvain’s mouth. “Shoot. Sorry, look if I overstepped, I am really sorry, ok?” 

“It is not your fault. It is mine. I should have never encouraged this.”

“Was it really that bad?” Sylvain darkens. That edge has returned his expression—the one she glimpsed briefly after the dance.

“Do not get cross with me,” Ingrid says. “I am the one who stands to be hurt by this, not you. I am the one who will have to bear all the consequences of our little liaison.”

“What makes you so convinced that I will hurt you?”

Ingrid turns away from him. The hedges sharply veer away from her. Far away, she can hear the swing of music and a murmur of revelry.

“You don’t understand. You will not hurt me. I will hurt myself. By letting myself believe in this foolish masquerade. I am determined not to fall for you.”

Ingrid hears his footsteps crunch in the grass, then stop suddenly. He twists and groans. She can hear something thwack against the statue. She peeks over her shoulder and sees that he has wrenched the mask from his face.

“Don’t worry. I get it,” he says bitterly. “By the goddess, you’re right! I know that I am not good enough. I know that that I am not worth it. But to let me think for one moment that— Damnit!” His fist slams against the statue.

“Oh, please, you can have any woman at the ball,” Ingrid says. “You probably will too. Once you are done with me, you will be right back out there, finding another to replace me.”

“I could never replace you.”

“Ah, what a famous line.” Ingrid laughs resentfully. “How can you say that? You don’t even know who I am, and if you did, you wouldn’t want me.”

The intensity of Sylvain’s gaze hones on Ingrid. “Is that so?”

She turns back to the maze stretching out before her. Suddenly, she finds herself running. Her legs carry her forward, but Sylvain’s long strides quickly pursue.

Ingrid’s eyes burn. She cannot cry. Not here. Not until she has slipped through the dark maze and removed her mask. Not until she is far, far away from Sylvain.

Suddenly an arm wraps around her waist and reels her close to him. Her back strikes his chest as his lips press to her ear.

“ _Ingrid, Ingrid, Ingrid,_ and here I thought you would know better.”

The floor falls out from beneath Ingrid’s feet. It is a good thing that Sylvain grips her so tightly around the waist or else she might buckle.

He _knew_. There goes Ingrid’s protective veneer of anonymity.

 _He_ knew. The breath squeezes out from her lungs.

_He knew._

“Wait, when did you…you knew who I was this whole time?”

“Since the moment you stepped out into the ballroom.”

“How?”

“Really?” Sylvain remarks in disbelief. “I mean, other than the fact you dressed as my favorite character from my favorite book?”

“Selina is very popular. That could have been anyone.”

“Uh huh. All right fine,” Sylvain says. “Let’s see. I noticed your eyes.” His finger taps at the holes in her mask. “I noticed your voice.” Now the finger drops to her lips. Her mouth parts involuntarily. “I noticed your gait.” His hand squeezes her hips.

“My gait? How in the world did you recognize that? Have you been studying the way I walk?”

“ _Maybe_.”

The heat sinks from Ingrid’s cheeks straight to places she’d rather not mention. Sylvain has been watching her. All this time, watching. And noticing.

“But do you know what really confirmed my suspicions?” His voice rattles her ear. Ingrid braces herself, waiting for the judge to dictate her greatest mistake. “That annoyed little grunt you made when the drunk couple bumped into us. I’ve been on the receiving end of that a few too many times.”

Ingrid laughs breathlessly, but it quickly passes into a moan. All the tension has pooled in her belly, and there is nowhere for it go but up, up, up into the words that spill out of her mouth.

“If you knew, then why tonight?” Ingrid asks. “Why tonight of all nights did you decide to want me?” Was it the makeup or the tight costume? The alcohol perhaps or the suggestive game of surprise?

Sylvain nips at her ear. “What is that supposed to mean? I have always wanted you. I thought I told you that every day. But, you know, I could never tell if you…well, I try to respect your space, Ing. I never knew you wanted this before. But I always told you what I felt.”

“You tell me every day that none of it matters. That none of it means anything. That your flirtations are—”

“I didn’t mean that about you!”

“How am I supposed to know that?”

He grumbles with dissatisfaction, and Ingrid cannot tell if she frustrates him or if he frustrates himself.

“Fair.” His hand tugs the hat from her head and tosses it aside like a disc. His nose buries into her hair. “Fine then. What made _you_ suddenly want me tonight?”

Now that she can no longer hide behind Selina, words fail her. “I have always…I care for you, Sylvain, you know that.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

Ingrid breathes in deeply. She summons the courage she knows she holds within her—the courage that carried her through years of battle, the courage that helped her persevere through Glenn’s death, the courage that brought her here tonight.

“I just assumed that if you didn’t want me, perhaps I could be someone you would want.”

Sylvain sighs. The idiocy of her own statement astounds her. She wonders if he will forgive her for this stupid ploy to trick him.

“Well, I guess we should have gone as jesters tonight because we’re both fucking fools.”

Ingrid snorts. “At least we’re fools for each other?”

Sylvain laughs. It warms her heart to hear it. It tells her that all is forgiven. “Hey, that’s supposed to be my line.”

Her hand reaches back to touch his face just to ensure that this is real; his lips press against her palm. “I am still disappointed that you discovered me so easily.”

“You can’t hide from me, Ing,” Sylvain murmurs. With one hand, he tugs the ribbon securing her mask. It clatters to the ground. The night air chills the exposed skin on her brow. “Although I must say, I did enjoy this little surprise. Really, really enjoyed it.”

“Oh yeah?” Ingrid can barely form words anymore. Her mind has completely turned to jelly.

“If you’d like, I could show you just how much I enjoyed it.” His voice dips to caramel and whiskey, a deep-throated, sensual growl that reduces Ingrid to a puddle. His hand travels down her shorts and fists the fabric over her thighs.

Ingrid’s thoughts dissolve into incoherence.

“Mm, I paid too much for this costume to have you rip it off my body,” she said weakly, a last defense against the illicit thoughts stealing through her brain.

“Oh, well, that is a fun suggestion indeed, but we’re not getting rid of the costume.”

Ingrid laughs again. This time it is real. This time it is unburdened by her own anxieties. She twists around in his arms and perches on her toes to kiss him. She feels him—all of him—fasten to her. When she pulls away, his face catches in ecstasy, eyes half-lidded and mouth ajar.

“Let’s get out of here,” Ingrid mumbles against his lips. "Let's go somewhere a little more private." 

“Really?” Sylvain says half in surprise, half in disbelief.

“Really.” Ingrid slips her hand into his and tugs him towards the exit of the maze. They do not travel far before Sylvain says:

“Shoot, we forgot our masks. Should we go back?”

“Nah.” Together, they trip through the darkness towards the end of the maze. “Leave them.” 

* * *

“Turn the page.”

Several weeks later, Ingrid and Sylvain tangle in bed together, a book propped up on the sheets in front of them. This is a definite improvement from the library floor, Ingrid thinks. Sylvain’s cheek nests against her hair, absorbing every other word down the page. The lauded costume sits now in a wardrobe untouched; she wears one of his shirts instead, halfway buttoned and rucked up around her hips.

“Hold on, I’m still reading.”

Sylvain rumbles with irritation. “Do you think Selina is going to run away from this arranged marriage?”

“If you stop talking, we can find out.”

“If you read faster, we can find out.”

Ingrid sticks her face up at him and glowers. “You just want to see if she’s going to sleep with Count Darien.”

Sylvain chuckles. “Well, yeah,” he says with a squeeze to her thigh. “You know it’s odd.”

“What?”

“You’ve never asked me why Selina is my favorite character.”

Ingrid’s eyes roll. “I thought it’s because she’s hot.”

“Well, yeah, but why do I find her hot?”

Sighing, Ingrid sets the book down. “Fine. Why do you find her hot?”

“Well, she’s pragmatic and a little serious, but an excellent fighter, devoted friend, and a goodhearted person. When you break through the mask, you find that she’s really goofy and sweet. Kind of reminds me of you.” His hand massages her scalp. “Also I have a thing for blondes.”

A blush steals over Ingrid’s face. A scold waits on the tip of her tongue to chastise him for what is perhaps the most supreme of all his pickup lines. Instead, she finds herself grinning like an idiot. Was this what he was thinking about all those times before, reading books together on the library floor?

Another thought enters her head with such irony that she can only laugh.

“What?” Sylvain said. “I mean it, you know. It’s not just a line.”

“No, it’s just…remember at the Royal Masquerade? I dressed up as Selina to become someone different—someone I thought you would like better than me, and instead, all I did was become, well, me. The me that you apparently see me as.”

“There is no one better than you.”

“Oh, please.”

Sylvain’s kisses pepper her forehead. “No one cleverer. No one stronger. No one prettier.”

“Stop.” The book falls to the wayside as Ingrid leans her head up and Sylvain kisses her. As Sylvain pulls away, a serious expression crosses his face.

“Hey, Ingrid, what do you say we do a couple’s costume next year?”

 _Next year._ So many little promises buried into one simple phrase. Ingrid ignores the swell of her heart and casually poses:

“Oh yeah? What are you thinking?”

She regrets the question as soon as she says it. By the smirk on his face, she anticipates what he says next.

“It’ll be a surprise.”

**Author's Note:**

> I think this one-shot finally proves once and for all that I am incapable of writing any short piece without it dissolving into indulgent fluff by the end. 
> 
> You can find more shameless indulgence on [ my Twitter. ](https://twitter.com/skreev1)


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